


slippery when wet

by carmen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dacryphilia, Gunplay, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, cigarette burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:23:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1365535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carmen/pseuds/carmen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim takes predictably poorly to Magnusson trying to shake down his dear darling boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	slippery when wet

Magnusson begs. Or he fakes it very well; he must be used to hearing people beg, the way their voices start to go, the way the tears start prickling at the corners of their eyes. Even for grown men; his piggy blue eyes are swimming behind his prescription lenses by the time Jim plucks them away from him and grinds them under his heel, makes sure he hears the crunch and the little metallic wrenching sounds. (The glasses go, not his eyes. They'll go next, if he doesn't behave. He's really been a most spectacularly naughty boy.) Something in his face crumples, as he watches them break; his skull-face sags just a millimetre more. 

He doesn't really _need_ him tied up; witness the begging, even before he starts to threaten in earnest, Magnusson is a coward to the marrow and imagining him fighting too much -- no, imagining him prevailing -- is laughable. But he looks very appealing when bound, with his suit-jacket peeled down and crumpled up behind him, its hiked-up sleeves speckled with blood. His shirt's undone a rather louche three buttons; he looks like something off of a specialty web site, the preview section before they make you sign away your credit card information. Jim has broken his wrist and is considering breaking more things besides. 

"Please, there's no need for violence. I'm a businessman, please, what do you need to know--" 

"I'm really rather -- dare I say it, curious..." 

Jim pulls the heavy desk chair away and shoves it a foot or two closer to Magnusson's kneeling form with one kick. It's a right pain in the arse to keep hold of a cigarette with his finger on the trigger too; he trades over so he's got one in each hand, and takes a lazy, deep drag. 

"How you came up with the thing with the piss. I mean, I'm going to have to kill you, but it's genius. Have you done it before? Did you think it up special? Or did you just _really have to go?_ " 

This trips another jolt of pleading; he's almost afraid that Magnusson will piss himself from fear here and now. 

"I mean, you've got your garden variety impoliteness, man's inhumanity to man, and you do performance art. Where do you get off? Or do you get off? It's always a possibility. I know I would. But that's beside the point." 

He clocks him with the gun again, hard enough to rattle teeth, hard enough to send a jolt up his arm on contact. The first word out of Magnusson's split Scandinavian mouth is "please". 

Please, another, mm. How lovely. 

"You've been absolutely _beastly_ to my good friend Sherlock Holmes. And his little dog, too." He withdraws the gun for a moment to scratch at his jaw with a thumbnail. (Careful waving that thing about. You'll put someone's eye out.) Magnusson sways gently in his place on the ground. He spits out blood, a little fragment of canine tooth enamel sticking to his chin. "Daddy doesn't appreciate you nosing around, making messes where you shouldn't, oh no." 

"Oh God, oh God..." he moans. His words barely sound like words at all. The tears come down his face, just buckets and buckets. 

There's a certain _je ne sais quoi_ , he's decided, about a crying man on his knees. He's rather inclined to agree with some of Magnusson's assessments on English national character, but everyone's docile with a bullet in their head. 

Jim flicks off a stray fleck of ash. The barrel of the gun is still warm from being fired; when he rubs it against Magnusson's face, one smooth insistent caress, down from his shiny temple to the sole place of softness in his cheek adjacent his mouth, Magnusson lets out one cowardly whimper of exquisite fear. He rubs the tip of it against his greying beard, nudging at his lower lip. 

They always whimper, whinge, cry. 

He draws the chair closer, motioning with the gun and compelling him down, making Magnusson lower his head with arms still wrenched behind him and sinking down on the boniest parts of his knees. Jim's kneeled before for all manner of things, and some positions are, if not precisely comfortable, far more bearable than others; this one isn't one of them. Magnusson sweats. 

"You're going to suck me off, nice and slowly. Make it good for me."

The sheer horror on his face doesn't precisely suggest compliance, but it is delicious. All the color has shrunk from his complexion. Surely he's done worse. Surely he knows what it's like to do much, much worse; he's not a criminal, he may plead, but he's not dull. But the first rule of business is making sure it's the other guy who gets fucked. 

"Oh, come on, so serious. You ought to be grateful. Open up." 

 

He's shaking. For a man with such perpetually sweaty palms, he has a surprisingly dry mouth. And yet he falls to his task with all the perverse enthusiasm of a man who prides himself on not having any scruples whatsoever. No biting, quite a bit of unhappy-sounding swallowing and absolutely _wicked_ use of his tongue. He teases against the head of his prick, tongue scraping damply against the slit almost forcefully enough to hurt, and all Jim's evil genius brain is full of is the sound of a grow man crying and the satisfaction of a task well-begun. Charles' mouth hitches around his cock periodically, a soundless sob. 

When Jim finishes -- and it takes a while, he's got plenty of unappetizing things to think about to draw it out, though the worst of them come back around again the other side and become arousing again -- his cigarette is barely an ember. Magnusson jerks back, gagging on seamy white come, and he stubs it out on the sweaty skin exposed by the open collar of Charles' damp-soaked shirt. The sizzle is delicious. Even an amateur would have to appreciate that.


End file.
